Little Earthquakes
by Tallera
Summary: Buffy's having Issues about her post-traumatic death syndrome. Spike helps her deal.


Author's Note: Something about this song just struck me one day, and I realized it was the perfect song to fit Buffy's post-death Issues. After that, this story kind of wrote itself…

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Oh, these little earthquakes

Here we go again

Oh, these little earthquakes

Doesn't take much to rip us into pieces

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She had seen the surprise in Giles' face when she got up from the table, muttering something about a quick patrol. The space between his eyebrows scrunched into a complex map of wrinkles as he digested her words. "Buffy…er—"

The momentary silence thundered in her ears. Silence was so much easier to deal with when there were no words on either side of it…

"Are you sure you're up to it? I mean, you…you know you don't have to? No one would blame you for taking some time to…readjust—"

"I do have to. I'm fine." It was getting easier. Her voice had come out very calm and precise that time. After a week of almost constant practice, it wasn't as hard to bite back the bitter truths that sat perched on the tip of her tongue, when her friends asked her questions like these. None of them would understand, and she could not (_would not_) explain. _Guess there are still some things Hallmark *doesn't* make cards for…_

She could feel them watching her, as she robotically tucked stakes into her bag—six pairs of eyes scalding the back of her neck with their concerned gaze. Very deliberately, she turned and walked out of the Magic Box and into the dark, not pausing to say good-bye. The little bell above the door tinkled as she brushed across the threshold.

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Ask not for whom the bell tolls, she thought idly. _It tolls for thee…_

No, it was definitely better that they didn't know. Telling them the truth would bring nothing but more pain and suffering, and Buffy was pretty sure that she was already suffering enough for all of them. She couldn't bear the added burden of seeing the looks on their faces if she tried to explain that she _needed_ to patrol because the cemetery felt like…home.

No matter how hard she scrubbed and scraped and filed, it seemed like she would never get all of the dirt of her grave out of her fingernails. In the same way, the spiritous mists of the cemetery seemed to have taken up residence in her soul (_or whatever's left of it_). She felt a strange kinship with the silent rows of stone, the ghostly wraiths of trees…even the stars seemed to shine less brightly there, in that land of the dead. The air always tasted like ashes, as if the corpses beneath her feet had the power to suck the life from everything around them.

She tended to keep to the older sections of graves, anymore. The weedier, more time-worn headstones seemed to attract more undead things…and there were rarely any flowers. The flowers bothered Buffy more than anything else. Their bright colors and lively blooms intruded on the grey purity of the place…tentative tendrils of life encroaching on hostile territory. _Pointless_, she thought savagely. _Nothing will ever win out over death…even in the cold and the dark and the silence of the end of days, still, it will always get the last laugh…_

With her attention lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts, her feet had carried her automatically through the streets of Sunnydale. She returned to herself in time to see the familiar wrought-iron gates of her favorite haunt leap suddenly out of the darkness, like a deadly feline pouncing on an unsuspecting prey. As her hand met cold metal, the gate swung soundlessly on well-used hinges, and a cold gleam blossomed in Buffy's otherwise dull eyes. A thrill of morbid anticipation ran down her spine as she slipped past the bars and became one with the shadows.

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We danced in graveyards with vampires 'til dawn

We laughed in the faces of kings, never afraid to burn

And I hate

And I hate

And I hate

And I hate disintegration

Watching us wither

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The bleached-blond vampire watched the dust settle around him as he crouched on the grass, lithe and poised like a cat. Only a few specks of ash twinkled on the tangled green strands to mark where his enemy had been standing a moment before. The bloodthirsty grin on his demonic face widened by a notch.

He raised his eyes to the fledgling standing a few feet away, as if trying to stake the other vampire merely with his sharp yellow glare. "In the words of a noted writer," Spike said conversationally, in a pleasantly deadly tone, "'and then there was one…'"

The fledgling looked like it would rather be working on its nonexistent tan than facing the homicidal demon crouched on the cemetery lawn. Spike almost thought he could see the youth's lower lip tremble in fear.

"Or, in the words of a more recent generation…" In a sudden blur of black-and-blond, he exploded off the ground to land a roundhouse kick on his opponent's jaw, spinning the younger demon around and dropping him like so much garbage. As the fledgling hit the ground, Spike pounced, driving the point of his stake deep into it's newly-resurrected flesh. A moment later, the fledgling joined its companion in fertilizing the grass.

The bleached victor smirked even wider. "…Another one bites the dust!" he finished with relish.

Standing, he brushed a few stray flakes of ash from his duster, and looked around. That was the sixth vamp he'd killed in the last hour and a half…and still, no Buffy.

Lately, it seemed like the Slayer spent every waking hour patrolling one or another of Sunnydale's many graveyards, always in the same mindless pattern. _She never gives herself a break…does she sleep at all, anymore?_ And while Spike couldn't help but revel in the endless nights they spent patrolling together, he wasn't so selfish that he couldn't see the strain caused by her twenty-four hour lifestyle. 

The signs were plain, especially to one such as he, whose every sense was attuned to the nuances of the Slayer, the huntress of his kind. The tension showed in the hard set of her jaw, the hollows of her porcelain cheeks, and the dull, pinched expression in her eyes.

Somewhere in the black, slimy core of his being, his demon slavered at the sight of a Slayer bowed under the weight of such grief. The foul creature that gave life to his limbs raged at him, urging him to take advantage of this weakness—_kisshershagherhurtherloveherbreakherkillher!_—but Spike had become so accustomed to ignoring that hissing, febrile little voice that he barely heard it anymore. Instead, and not for the first time, he sent a prayerful thought to any Power that might be listening.

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Please, don't let it be to late…I know I can save her, if she'd only let me…

"Gee, Spike…If I'd known you liked that stake so much, I would've used it on you long ago."

Spike's head snapped up so fast that his brain rattled in his skull, and he felt a bit light-headed. _Of course, that could just be her…_ Buffy was wearing an expression to match the caustic note in her voice, one eyebrow raised mockingly. She eyed the wooden stake he had unconsciously clasped to his chest while lost in his thoughts.

The bleached vampire smirked at her as he dropped his hand to his side. "This, coming from the girl who names every other stake 'Mr. Pointy'?"

He knew immediately that it had been the wrong thing to say, by the way she dropped her gaze to study the grass at her feet, and wrapped both arms around herself. Her reply was quiet. "It's something a friend used to say…"

He watched her carefully as he backed away to lean against a headstone. "Yeah…that would've been the other slayer, right? The first one…with the Miss Cleo accent…?"

The look Buffy gave him then would have scorched through solid lead, and her voice was deadly. "Kendra. The one that Dru 'bagged.'"

Spike merely looked at her, not replying. After all, the Slayer already knew that he'd had no hand in that attack. She was also well aware that he wouldn't defend Dru's actions, but neither could he condemn them. So he waited for the inevitable.

He did not wait long. Buffy's eyes seemed to lose track of what they saw, and her face took on a faraway expression. When she spoke several moments later, her voice was flat and almost dreamy.

"I found her, you know…in the library, on the floor…she looked so peaceful. Not much blood…it was almost like if I shook her hard enough, she'd wake up…"

As she went on, her rambling monologue gathered momentum, and her voice became harsher. "I'm glad she didn't wake up, though…it's no fun, waking up from a dream into a nightmare that isn't one…that doesn't end…just goes on and on until you don't know where the nightmare ends and you begin. But maybe she would've been different…no friends to perform their selfish little spells…no sister to be responsible for…and she was so lonely already…I told her I'd get her a stuffed animal…something to love…but when you love things, they hurt you. The teddy bear would probably have gotten possessed or something so she'd have to shred it…"

"Y'know, I bet that's why Slayers are supposed to work alone," she continued musingly. "Friends and family are all well and good as ties to the world, but maybe they're not worth the price…maybe this isn't the world I'm meant for…I mean, Slayers are supposed to live fast and die hard…we're not supposed to live long enough for things to get this complicated…the slaying is hard enough without life battering at me, too…I was supposed to die young…"

Buffy came back to herself with a start, a look of absolute horror blossoming across her face. "Oh, god," she half-sobbed. "I'm not supposed to be here!" She began to shake.

In a flash, Spike was at her side, clutching her by the arms. Her eyes were wild and blazing, as she half-screamed her frenzied rejection of the life forced upon her by those she once loved: "I'm not supposed to be here, I'm not supposed to be here, I'm not supposed to be here!!"

"Buffy! Buffy, snap out of it! Dammit, Slayer, get ahold of yourself!!" Fear and concern made Spike's words shrill, but still they fell on deaf ears.

Finally, she began to choke on the acid words, and the tears began to flow. Her small body quaked and shuddered under the onslaught of the abysmal grief flooding her soul. The vampire's undead heart ached to see such pain flowing unchecked from his golden girl, so he comforted her the only way he could think of.

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She may stake me for this later, but at least I won't have to watch her cry… he thought resignedly as he wrapped his leather-clad arms around her back in a gentle hug. So he was completely shocked when she flung herself bodily into the cool pressure of his tentative embrace, clinging to his neck with a death-grip and burying her face in his shoulder.

As he tenderly rubbed her back and murmured comforting words in her ear, soothing all the sobs from her body, Spike's one thought was that, somewhere in all the dimensions of heaven and hell, there must be a Power that listened to the prayers of demons.

Maybe tonight she would finally let him help…

Maybe it wasn't too late.

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And I can't reach you

And I can't reach you

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As Buffy's sobs finally began to abate, Spike released his hold on her, and gently reached up to pry her arms from their vise-like grip on his neck. She refused to look at him as he led her to a nearby monument and sat her down. He took a place on the ground across from her, leaning against another stone, and waited for her breathing to steady.

"That make you feel a bit better, luv?" he asked quietly.

The huff of air that shuddered from Buffy's lips was her best approximation of a laugh. "You don't get it…" She spoke with a quiet desperation, as though it were the most important thing in the world that he—that _someone_—understand. "No, that didn't make me feel any better." At his quizzical look, she elaborated. "It didn't make me feel better; it didn't make me feel worse. Or…at all."

Now it was Spike's turn to huff, but in frustration. "Look, Buffy…I'm trying to help you, but if you're going to be speaking in prophecies an' riddles, we probably oughta go fetch Ripper, 'cause I'm not qualified."

He saw her defenses begin to go back up at the mention of her Watcher, and hastily continued. "C'mon, Slayer…you've been holdin' it all inside 'cause you won't tell any of the Scoobies where you were shackin' up, these last few months. Please, Buffy…don't do that to yourself. _Talk_ to me." 

Spike held his breath. _Please, let her talk to me_, he begged, hoping that friendly Power was still listening. Buffy stared at him with her hauntingly empty eyes, and when her lips finally partedto speak, they seemed to do so of their own accord. 

"I just…I don't…know how to deal with this, Spike. I…I don't even know where to start. I have to act like everything's all sunshine and rainbows, because I can't stand the pain and…and the pity in everyone's eyes whenever they look at me…they need everything to be back to normal, but…I don't think I remember what 'normal' is supposed to be anymore."

"Did you know that I ran away for a few months, after I killed Angel and stopped Acathla? When I came back, I thought that facing all the friends I abandoned was the hardest thing I'd ever have to do…and they didn't make it easy," she admitted ruefully. "But after everybody yelled at me a while, we were all even closer than before…more like family than friends."

Buffy wrapped her arms around herself, eyes wide and staring straight ahead into nothing. But her voice sent a chill down his already-cool spine: despite the obvious pain behind her words, it was as flat and matter-of-fact as if she was discoursing on the weather. "And now, coming home is ten times worse than it was then, and they…they're not _there_ anymore…it's like losing Mom all over again…and every time I look at them…it's all I can do not to ask…to scream at them, 'Why have you done this to me, I thought you all cared—'"

Spike couldn't let that go by without a reply. "But they _do_ care, luv…we all do! But how could any of them have known?" He rose from his place on the grass to sit next to her on the edge of the monument, emphasizing his words. "Bringing you back might not have been the best way to go about it, but if nothin' else, you've got t'know their hearts were in the right place…?"

She looked at him with eyes as flat and dead as her voice. "So, I guess that means I should just shrug off the whole 'second-crack-at-a-life-of-misery-and-toil' thing because, after all, they meant well? It's just one of those forgive-and-forget mistakes, like 'oh, gee, I'm sorry, I broke your lucky pen'?"

It really was unnerving, to listen to words laced with such bitterness, spoken so calmly and distantly. "Alright, Slayer, you've lost me completely. Are you mad at the Scoobies for bringing you back? Or do you just not care, or what? You've got all the lines down pat, but there's a little something still missing in the delivery…"

She closed her eyes, sighing at his lack of comprehension. "That's what I'm _trying_ to tell you," she replied, the merest hint of frustration creeping into her words. "Ever since they brought me back, I can't seem to _care_ about anything at all…"

"Well, nice to know it's not just me…" the vampire began, but Buffy cut him off, speaking in a low, tense voice, as though she hadn't even heard him.

"I've been wondering if maybe…maybe I didn't come quite all the way back, you know? Maybe some part of me is still back…where I was, or the part of me that did come back to this world is still somehow cut off from it. It's like…there's something wrapped all around me, coming between me and my life—like a burial shroud, or drowning in molasses…an impermeable layer of something that won't let me out. Everything comes through all muffled…when I touch things, I'm not actually making contact, 'cuz there's always this layer in between. All the feelings I know I ought to be feeling about…about everything, they…they just don't seem to penetrate. There are moments when it feels like I'm smothering in it, and I have to struggle just to breathe…"

She was trembling now, from the sheer effort of wrapping words around her nebulous confusions. She sat quietly for several moments, before continuing hesitantly. "It would scare me, Spike, feeling so detached from the things I see, the people I used to care about…but…" Her trembling increased as she violently shook her head, trying to deny the thoughts that wouldn't go away. "…but…"

Spike laid an encouraging hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, pet, you can tell me…"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her forehead wrinkling with frustration—the only emotion he had seen her display since she'd stopped crying. Finally, the words she was afraid to speak ground out from between her clenched teeth, like grains of sand.

"Even though it scares me, I think…I need it. I don't want it to go away." With that admission, it was like a barrier had been breached within her, releasing all of her pent-up confusion in a single gush. The note of frustration in her voice began to grow louder and more pronounced as she continued. "I mean, what if some part of me _is_ missing—what if I can't actually feel anything anymore? Emotions…it's like there's nothing left inside for them to stick to, they just sort of waft through me and keep right on going. When I'm with my friends, I know I ought to feel something for them, but I don't! I'm just all numb, there's nothing inside that's _real_ and _here_ anymore…because where I was before was so much more real than anything since I've come back…" she trailed off, gazing into the distance as if the sight made her ill.

The blond vampire simply sat, trying to absorb all that the Slayer was saying, and not at all certain how to respond.

But Buffy wasn't quite finished. She turned her wide, flat eyes to meet his. "Spike…?" 

His raised eyebrow invited her to continue.

"Is this…is this what it feels like to lose your soul?"

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Give me life

Give me pain

Give me myself again

Give me life

Give me pain

Give me myself again

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The flat, haunted expression in her eyes sent a chill straight through to his unbeating heart. _It can't…she can't actually think…_

Seeing his dumbfounded expression, she doggedly continued, "I…I mean, I know vampires supposedly can't feel anything because they have no souls, except for Angel, and when he actually _had_ his soul, he used to tell me that he loved me, so…"

Spike struggled to control the sudden spurt of anger that rose in his throat for a moment. He slid off the headstone on which they sat, and stalked a few paces away before stopping. _Even after all I've done, all I've said…she still doesn't believe that a soulless demon is capable of love…_ He wanted so badly to just walk away…the damned bitch was just so bloody callous!

But even as he thought it, he knew he could never just walk away and leave her, after everything she had said. Her words had planted a seed of burning fear in his chest…if she felt so little emotional attachment to her old life, how long would it be before that infamous 'Slayer death wish' finally took over? Or even worse, what if she just figured that an unfeeling life of slaying unfeeling creatures from Hell wasn't worth it, and decided to end it? Just the thought sent a wave of pain through him that nearly brought him to his knees.

With shaking hands, he brought out a cigarette and lit it, before turning around to face her. She was still staring, unseeing, over the shadowy expanse of graves—mute monuments to lives past and come to dust, and to loved ones who had learned to let go, to let the dead rest in the peace their lives had earned. She looked so lost and alone…

Crushing the newly-lit cigarette under his boot, Spike strode back over to where she sat slumped on the cold stone and put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to hear him. "Look, I don't pretend to understand what you're trying to deal with, but as rather an expert in the nature of vampires and not having souls, I can tell you that you've got it all wrong." Taking a deep breath and praying to any god or demon that would listen that his words would penetrate her fugue, he continued. "Take my word for it—the ability to care has nothing to do with your soul, or lack thereof. I know you don't want to believe it, or even think about it, but I _do_ love you, and I _do_ know what that means!"

His arms dropped and he closed his eyes in frustration, twisting around and dropping to the ground to lean against the stone on which she sat. "…Devil knows I don't _want_ to…I've tried every way I can think of to stop, but…emotions don't work like that, pet. You can't turn 'em on and off just like that," he snapped his fingers. "They've sort of got lives of their own."

"Not mine," Buffy shot back. "Mine are dead."

The vampire's lips twisted into a bitter grin. "I don't think so, luv."

"Oh, so you've now added 'telepathy' to your list of skills?" she retorted. "Well then, oh wise one, what else is going on in my head that I don't know about?"

He sighed. This wasn't going to be easy—_I hope she doesn't stake me before I'm through_—but she needed to understand, she needed a reason to keep fighting. He turned to look up at her. "It may seem unnatural, pet, but I don't think there's anything wrong in your head at all, or in your heart. You're just healing."

She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. "No, just listen for a second—I know it's been hard for you to come back to…this…after being where you were. It hurt you, more than you've let on, I think," she dropped her eyes from his, confirming his guess, "and that's understandable. But if you cut yourself, you'll have a scab for a while, as the wound underneath heals itself. When it falls off, you may have a scar, but that's just the surface…the pain will be gone and you'll be whole again."

She looked at him, expressionless. "So basically, you're saying that being dead is like a really big cut on my finger, and the whole unfeelingness thing is just a big, gross, crusty scab around my emotions?"

"Well, if you want to take the metaphor that far, then…yeah, I guess so."

Buffy chewed on that for a moment, before shaking her head slowly. "I'd like to believe that something like that could be true, but I just feel so…so sterile and lifeless inside." Every word spoken in that hollow, empty voice was like a fresh splinter driven deep into his undead heart. "I mean, Willow herself admitted that the resurrection spell got interrupted, so it's no surprise that it might have backfired in some way…like bringing back my body, but not my soul—or at least, not all of it…"

Spike couldn't suppress the anger bubbling up in him. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed her arms, pinning them to her sides, and yanked her upright, pulling her so close that her hair brushed his face. She gaped at him in startled surprise.

"Damn it, Slayer, don't you _dare_ give up like that!" he growled at her. "Don't you see that you've got to _fight_, to win back the life and love you've lost?!?" Her shocked face was mere inches away from his own, and her breath was warm and soft against his cheek. Her eyes…they used to hold such sparkle, such life…he used to fancy that he could catch a glimpse of brilliant, undiluted sunlight trapped in their sea-green depths—the only sunlight he would ever see. Now those eyes had gone cold and hollow, and he almost couldn't bear to look at her, seeing her so defeated…

He brought one hand up to touch her cheek, and spoke more gently. "I'm sorry, luv, but I'm not going to just stand aside while you give up on yourself like this. I won't let you just 'go quietly into that good night.' If you won't fight for yourself, then _I_ will." And with that, he brought his lips to hers, kissing her with all his fear, anger and ferocity, with all the experience of his long unlife, with the very soul he had long since lost, trying to squeeze even the barest shred of feeling from her wounded heart. At first she was cold and unresponsive, but as he gently parted her lips with his tongue, her mouth began to move in time with his. Hesitantly, her arms went around his neck, and her body pressed more firmly against his own, as their tongues danced, teasing the soft flesh of their mouths. When she finally pulled away to catch her breath, his lips were warm.

In the darkness of the cemetery, the color of her eyes was hidden by shadow, but Spike looked quickly enough to see the tiny spark, the faint hint of the old sparkle, that burned in their depths for a moment after they broke the kiss. The light soon faded, but it was enough to give him hope. With patience, he might still be able to bring her back from the brink on which she was poised. He had to believe that.

"You have to believe me, ducks…that there are still things worth living for…?"

Slowly, she pulled herself away from his half-embrace, wrapping her arms around herself. There was uncertainty in her demeanor that had not been there moments earlier. "I…I don't know…" She shivered.

The bleached-blond vampire knew better than to push her too quickly. They both stood in silence for a few moments, not really looking at each other, but not really looking away, either. Finally, he took note of her trembling. "Look, pet, you're freezing. There's no more ghoulies to kill tonight that won't wait for tomorrow." He took off his black leather duster and draped it over her quaking shoulders. When she looked up at him, he offered her a small smile. "C'mon, I'll walk you home."

As he strode easily at Buffy's side, Spike breathed a very small and unnecessary sigh of relief. She hadn't staked him yet, and getting all that mess in her head out into the open air ought to do her some good. The weeks and months ahead would still be hard, on all of them, but tonight was…a start.

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Thank you…whoever, whatever you are that'll listen to a demon like me…thank you…

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Oh, these little earthquakes

Here we go again

Oh, these little earthquakes

Doesn't take much to rip us into pieces

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As the vampire and the Slayer passed through the wrought iron gates, crossing from the realm of the dead into the night-hushed streets of Sunnydale, a pair of silver Eyes watched them, across the dimensional gulf. The Eyes watched at the tall, peroxide-blond man casually put an arm around the girl's petite shoulders; then They widened, as she trustingly laid her head on his shoulder in response.

If the Eyes had been associated with a Mouth, It would have smiled, just a bit.

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~No, William, there is none among Us who would listen to a demon's plea,~ mused the Power behind the Eyes. _~But the prayers of men, unselfish and soul-true…those will usually catch Our attention…~_

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Reviews please!!!!! You guys and your responses are the reason I keep writing—my ego needs all the help it can get! ; )


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